


Complications In Contract Negotiation

by MsDay



Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: Cannibalism, Contracts, Gen, Homicide, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:53:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28483455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsDay/pseuds/MsDay
Summary: Alastor hates Valentino. What better way to piss him off than by stealing his favourite pet?
Comments: 4
Kudos: 34





	Complications In Contract Negotiation

**Author's Note:**

> My brain is being an epic cuntasaurus, the bitch. I finished this a month ago, but my brain insists that it's terrible. I don't care anymore. Please enjoy. Or don't; I'm not your Mother...

There’s an itch that Alastor gets, just under his skin, when he hasn’t killed in a while. He used to think it was an actual itch, something physical. Used to try to scratch it with blades, broken glass, or pottery. Even just his nails, sometimes; whatever was handy.

He knows it now, knows what it means. The fuse is lit and if he doesn’t contain the explosion, there’s no telling what he’ll do or to whom. He needs to quell the urge, and the best way to do that is to go for a stroll.

Cannibal Colony is a good place for a quick meal, but he’s not looking for quick.

Being damned doesn’t mean that one can’t be civil; can’t be decent. A little, well, not pet project, that would imply that it’s something he does actively, which he doesn’t. A pastime in which he sometimes indulges is cleaning up Street Walker Central. The workers, the visitors, anyone who happens by. To him, they’re all deserving of his blade. Or, more accurately, his teeth.

He comes upon a group of, he hesitates to call them ‘ladies’, but to call them anything else would be incredibly rude. They all duck their heads and move away before he can so much as greet them. Smart ladies.

Half a block down, he comes by an alleyway. He hears grunts and considers eating whoever is making that disgusting noise. The thought makes him want to gag. He does decide to kill him, though. “Hello, good sir,” he calls, heading into the alley.

He gets close enough to see a big, broad man, hand out to brace himself against the wall and trousers around his knees, backside on full display. He can make out a shape kneeling on the ground in front of him, someone small, probably gamy.

“The fuck do you want?” the man snaps over his shoulder, then grabs the shape in front of him and moves in such a way as to make the person on their knees choke and start to struggle.

“Some manners wouldn’t go amiss.” He lights up his microphone and the whole alley is suddenly awash in red light.

The man turns around, apparently recognizes him and starts sputtering, backing away and tripping over his trousers. With him out of the way, Alastor can see Angel Dust on the ground, coughing and wiping at his face and neck.

“Angel Dust,” he says, “what are you doing?” He doesn’t get a response. He turns back to the man. The man is trying to climb the chain link fence at the end of the alley. Alastor heaves a sigh and follows. Though he’d like to stay as far away from this man’s nether region as he possibly can, he takes hold of the back of his trousers, still about the knee area, and pulls.

The man lands with a satisfying crack and lets out the scream he’s been craving. He notices, in his periphery, that Angel hasn’t left, yet. That’s fine; let him watch, if he wants. As long as he doesn’t get in the way. He lets the light of his microphone dim until it’s off entirely.

He follows slowly as the man half crab walks toward the mouth of the alley. The man looks over to Angel, but back to Alastor when no help is forthcoming. He makes it out to the sidewalk, but Alastor stops him before he can go out into the street where he might be hit by a passing vehicle.

“That’s far enough, sir. We wouldn’t want this to end too soon.”

“What do you want!?” he sobs, obviously not used to being the weaker party.

Alastor’s smile broadens, “I want to play with you,” he says, giddy. “I want to bleed you. I want to snap your bones, one by one, and listen to you scream,” he adds, his heart rate picking up and his skin tingling. “And, when they’re all in pieces, I want to rip them from your flesh and suck out the marrow,” he growls.

They have an audience. Everyone terrified of him, but content to watch someone else suffer. They begin to disperse, though, at his description of things to come. Well, now he knows how far is too far; at least for them.

He decides to keep going, “When your bones are all gone, and you’re just a pile of flesh and sinew, begging for death, I’ll carve out your organs and eat those, too.”

“Please,” the man whimpers. Alastor stomps on his knee, the one that wasn’t hurt in his earlier tumble, shattering it, and he screams again, following it up with open sobs and incoherent begging.

“Demons aren’t like humans. They’re,” he waves his hand, looking for a good descriptor, “chewy,” he decides. “There’s a certain bite. Something extra. It’s an acquired taste, but I do crave it, every now and then.” He grabs the man’s forearm and snaps it, nearly ripping the thing from the rest of the arm.

He closes his eyes to take in the screams and takes a deep breath of the fresh blood scent.

When he opens his eyes, the last of the stragglers have finally cleared away. He brings the man’s arm up to his mouth and licks over the exposed shards of bone. “Please...” the man says again, softly this time, all his fight draining away.

His smile hurts with how big it is. “Oh, I love it when they beg.”

* * *

Humming a little tune, something his Mother used to sing, when he was little, he summons some jars and packs away the man’s organs. His liver is a bit dark. Alastor pulls out his pocket knife and cuts into it, looking for damage. There is damage. A lot of damage. He drops the liver onto the pile of cast-offs and cuts away the man’s clothes, to get at the sweet, sweet muscle meat. He’ll take his femurs, too, he decides. For stew.

He continues his business as the clicking of heals comes up behind him. “You gunna take his wallet?” Angel asks. Alastor holds out the scrap of trousers with the wallet in it and Angel takes it. “Thanks,” he says, but he sounds more incredulous than truly thankful.

“Shit,” Angel mutters. The scrap of trousers falls to the ground, followed by the wallet, opened and emptied, then a stack of brightly coloured paper and plastic cards, now smeared with blood. He listens to Angel’s boots click-clacking away, as he summons a bone saw to get at the femurs.

“What were you doing here,” Alastor asks, sawing. “I thought you worked in Valentino’s studio.”

“Yeah, well, I fucked up, so now I’m here,” he says. Alastor looks up in time to see Angel Dust looking around. “And now everyone is gone. Fucking perfect.” He pulls something out of his pocket, but Alastor can’t see what it is, with his back turned. “And I’m still six hundred short,” he mutters to himself. He turns back toward Alastor, though he’s still down the street. “And now everyone’s fucking gone! How am I supposed to come up with the rest, huh?” He’s yelling now, still looking around for his next client.

He watches, hands practised enough to keep working without much input from his brain. Angel’s projecting anger, but under that, he looks scared. “Why are you being punished?”

Angel looks at him, takes a second, then shrugs. “No one says ‘no’ to Val.” He doesn’t look at Alastor, when he says it.

Alastor pulls out his handkerchief, wipes off his hands, then takes out his wallet. He takes out six hundred dollars and holds out the notes. Angel takes a step, then stops. Then he asks, “what do you want for it?”

His smile widens. That’s how it works, doesn’t it. Nothing is free, certainly not money. He thinks about it for a second. What does he want from Angel Dust? What would be worth six hundred dollars? “You’ll owe me a favour,” he eventually says. Angel hesitates. “Nothing life threatening. If I wanted you dead, I’d kill you myself.”

After another second of hesitation, Angel takes the money and counts it. “This is a lot of money for ‘some favour, some day’,” he says.

He wraps up the last cut that he wants and stands, a bag of meat in each hand. “I scared away your source of income. It’s only fair that I compensate you for that loss.”

Angel nods, though he’s frowning. He looks down at the stack of money in his hand. “Well,” he says, conversationally, “you ain’t the first devil I made a deal with. Thanks, Al.”

Normally, the nickname would grate on his nerves, but he’s too sated to bother with any of that. The endorphins in his system and the tightness in his trousers calling too loudly for him to care, just now. “Good night, then, my dear.” He opens a shadow-portal and walks into his room at the hotel.

* * *

He doesn’t see Angel Dust again for nearly a week. With their opposing schedules and no desire to seek him out, it’s no surprise.

“I don’t get why I gotta help out,” Husker is saying. “Nifty I get, this place is a dive, but I’m tending bar at a place trying to get people to stop drinking. Makes no sense,” he mumbles, not quietly enough that Alastor can’t hear him.

He holds up his empty glass and gives it a little shake. Husker rolls his eyes but grabs the bottle of whisky to refill his glass. He looks over at the sound of the front door opening. Angel looks haggard. He’s limping ever so slightly and when he gets closer, Alastor can see that his eyes are bloodshot and his face is puffy. The fur on his cheeks clumping together and sticking out on one side.

Angel passes by the bar and Alastor remains quiet. When they’re alone again, he turns his attention back to Husker. “Do I ever make you cry?”

Husker snorts. “Only lately. But, that’s mostly the boredom.”

“Do you have any pretzels back there?” he asks, leaning forward over the bar to see for himself.

“Yeah, yeah, hold your horses,” he says, throwing down his bar rag and getting a bag from the other end of the bar. “Here,” he drops the bag and picks up his rag and a mug that he can clean.

Alastor rears back, exaggerating his movements, “you’re not even going to open the bag for me? I’m a customer!”

“Fucking shit,” Husker says, slamming down the mug and rag again, and getting a large bowl down from the cupboard behind him. He puts it in front of Alastor, harder than necessary, and empties the pretzels into it. “Anything else, your majesty?”

“No, that’ll be all. Thank you, Husker,” He shoos him away with a quick hand movement and smiles down at his bounty.

* * *

Another week goes by and Alastor catches Angel coming back with some visible discomfort more often than not. When he thinks about it, he can remember other times, since he’s been here, that Angel has come back with injuries.

* * *

He feels the itch and goes back to Street Walker Central. Angel is back. He goes to Cannibal Colony, instead.

* * *

The next time Angel turns up with tear tracks, Alastor shadow-portals up to his room. He watches the pig scurry under the bed, but makes no move to follow it. Angel comes into the room, calling, “Nuggy, Mommy’s home.”

The pig comes out, oinking like mad and he turns around, “what’s- Fuck!” he stumbles back into his dressing table, knocking over bottles and other small containers. “Fuck,” he brings a hand up to his chest and huffs an angry sound. “What the Hell are you doing here, Al?”

Alastor narrows his eyes, but doesn’t comment. “I’m here to see you.” They stare at each other for a few seconds that quickly turn awkward. “I’m calling in that favour.”

Angel tenses, drawing into himself. He picks up the pig and cradles it to his chest. “Alright. What do you want from me?” he asks into the pig’s hide.

He pulls a radio out of his pocket. It’s a tiny little thing. Something that wouldn’t’ve been possible, when either of them had been alive. He holds it up, so Angel can see it, then puts it on the bedside table, “I need you to take this to Valentino’s studio.” Angel nods. “I need you to put it in his office.”

“What? Al, I- I can’t! You said nothing life threatening; you don’t know what he’ll do to me, when he finds out!” he says, all in a rush. Alastor waits for him to finish, but apparently he’s on a roll. “I’ll put it in the changing rooms, or, or one of the filming studios. We don’t go into Val’s office unless we’re in trouble. Please, I can’t go back, now, I was just-” he snaps his mouth shut, burying his face in the pig’s side.

He looks back at Alastor, calmer now. “Please, anything but that.”

“I’m sure if I had any, you’d be pulling at my heartstrings.” He taps the monstrosity of modern technology, “in his office. Tomorrow,” he adds, enunciating very clearly, so there can be no misunderstandings. Angel’s face scrunches up, but he portals out before he can say anything more.

* * *

He waits for Angel at the bar, the next day, a glass of whisky in his hand and Husker off on a pointless errand that they both knew was to keep him out of the way for a few hours. That’s why Husker is his favourite. He may be crass, but he’s good at reading the situation and knowing what needs to be done, no questions asked. Though, there may be some profanity thrown around as he does it.

Not that Alastor doesn’t enjoy the occasional curse or two, as long as they stay occasional. It lessens the impact, it cheapens the effect, when every other word is ‘fuck’. He likes to save them for very special occasions.

Angel comes in later than normal. He’s not surprised to see him come back beaten. He is surprised, however; that he came back beaten and still bloody, cradling an arm to his chest. He heads for the bar, lifting the counter and making a beeline for the booze. He picks up a bottle of vodka and grabs some scotch as he walks by; it looks like an afterthought. “I put it under his desk,” he tells the floor, on his way by.

“Thank you, my dear.”

He stumbles on his way up the stairs, but manages to catch himself before he looses his drinks.

* * *

At six that morning, Alastor turns on the radio in Valentino’s office. He listens. There’s nothing on the other end. No sound, no movement, no interference. He sends a pulse of static through to the other side, but no one responds to it. The office is empty.

He uses it as a landing point and opens a portal, stepping through his shadow and emerging into- The room is an affront to his senses. The furniture, the drapes, the rugs- they’re all brightly coloured and clash horribly. The couch is velvet, the desk chair is leather, the coffee table is mirrored. He sneers at the room. If he didn’t need to do this quietly, he’d light a fire on his way out.

The safe is hidden behind a portrait of Valentino standing on a pile of what can only be his employees. He rolls his eyes at the thing and swings it out to get at the safe.

No light means no shadow, so he lights up his microphone, directing the beam like a flashlight. The bright light casts a long, strong shadow over the safe. He sends his shadow into the door, to turn and click and reorient whatever’s in there. A minute of noises and a loud ‘clunk’ later, and the door pops open.

Inside is a stack of envelopes of various colours. He pulls them out by the handful, sorting quickly and replacing the ones he doesn’t want. He finds the envelope marked Anthony ‘Angel Dust’ D’Angelo near the back and slips it into his breast pocket.

His microphone is dimmed with a thought as he closes the safe, spinning the dial back around to 16, where it had been when he’d opened it. The portrait swings back without a sound. He collects the radio and opens a portal back to his room.

* * *

Angel comes down at about noon that day, yawning and stretching. Alastor is talking to Charlie about advertising for the hotel, when he sees him. “Yes, my dear, I’ll take care of it,” he says, walking away from her. He’s just agreed to run, ugh, television commercials, but needs must. “Angel,” he calls, “a word.” He doesn’t make sure that he’s being followed, just heads for the stairs.

“C’mon, Al, I did what you wanted. We’re square,” he wines as he does, indeed, follow.

“That’s not the word I wanted. Come along, now, don’t tarry.”

He takes them to Angel’s room and waits for the door to close before he says, “you’re not leaving the hotel, today.”

“Uh, yeah, I am,” he says. “I gotta go to work. I pissed off Val enough, yesterday...” he trails off, and the fear is back on his face.

Alastor pulls the envelope out of his coat and holds it up, very dramatically, though he’d never say so out loud. Angel’s eyes go wide, when he sees it. He turns the envelope around so Angel can see his own name.

“My contract,” he breathes. “How the fuck did you- the radio.” Then quieter and to himself, “I knew he kept them in his office, but- Why?” He asks, reaching for it.

Alastor pulls it out of Angel’s grasp, placing it back into his pocket “in short,” he says, “because I hate him. And, you happened to have given me the perfect opportunity to undermine him.”

Angel nods, starting out slow and getting more vigorous the longer it goes on. “So, I don’t work for Val, anymore.” His face lights up, “I don’t work for Val, anymore!” he cries, grabbing onto Alastor’s lapels.

“The five foot rule, Angel Dust,” he growls.

Angel pulls his hands back, showing empty palms, as he steps back. “Right, sorry. I- sorry. I just-”

Alastor smiles the way his Mother used to, soft and sweet. It’s a lie, of course, but it calms Angel some. “I’ll leave you to absorb. Don’t leave the hotel.”

He has the door open, when Angel finally responds, “yeah, no, of course. I will. Won’t. I’ll stay here,” he finally manages, sinking onto his bed and picking up the pig, when it comes over to him.

* * *

Husker is in his usual place, behind the bar. Nifty sitting on one of the stools, glass of cola in front of her. They stop talking, when he comes over and he raises his eyebrows at them. Husker places a steaming mug of coffee in front of him, then all but runs to the other end of the bar.

“So...” Nifty starts and Alastor realizes that she’s drawn the short straw. “Um. Are you going soft?” He barks a laugh and looks down at her. “Only, Angel Dust- He’s not really...” she spreads her hands out in front of her, trying to grasp whatever words she needs to finish that thought.

“Angel Dust was the most famous demon in Valentino’s employ-”

“’Was’?” she interrupts.

“’Was’,” he confirms with a nod. “And as such, his loss will be a hit, for Valentino.” He pauses to take a sip of his coffee. “Exactly how, remains to be seen, but I’m sure I can make use of him, either way.”

“Are you prepared for the fallout?” He looks at her sharply and she rushes to add, “I’m not saying that- You seemed content to just leave him alone, before. Did Angel ask you to get his contract?” Her voice gets softer as the sentence continues, aware that she’s on thin ice, but needing to ask, anyway.

“It would seem that you were better informed of the situation, than he was.”

She hesitates, spinning the glass of cola around and around in her hands, leaving wet streaks all over the bar. He reaches over the bar, finding a paper coaster and holds it out to her. She takes it, taking a rag out of her pocket and wiping away the water before putting down the coaster and drink.

“You told him to put the radio in Valentino’s office,” she says, and, were she speaking to anyone else, it might’ve been an accusation.

He finishes off his coffee and pushes the mug away. “Old habits die hard, eh, my dear?”

She doesn’t blush, she doesn’t have enough shame for that, but she does ask, “what are you going to do with him?”

“I’m not sure,” he admits. “I’m sure he has talents that I can exploit. I just have to find them. Husker,” he calls and taps the rim of his coffee mug.

No one speaks as Husker refills his coffee, then leaves them alone, again. Alone-ish.

He takes a sip, holding the coffee on his tongue to savour the flavour, before swallowing it down. “Angel Dust is a force of nature.” Nifty nods. “I don’t have the patience for him, most days.” She looks up at him. “It’s your job, now, to teach him the rules. Make sure he understands and follows them.” She purses her lips, but doesn’t argue. “If he fails to follow the rules, I’ll assume it has something to do with your teaching skills,” he stares her down as he says this.

She turns back to her cola, “I understand, sir.”

“Excellent,” he cries, making Nifty jump. “Now, I have some business and won’t be back until late. Don’t let him leave,” he tells them. He downs the rest of his coffee and straightens his coat, as he stands. “Husker, I don’t know what you’ve done to the coffee, but keep doing it!”

* * *

He goes to his radio tower and has a few commercials recorded for the hotel. They’ll be aired every hour, on every station. He doubts if anyone down here will genuinely want to be redeemed, but maybe he can annoy them into giving it a go.

It shouldn’t take twelve takes to record a fifteen second commercial, but this _actress,_ this Marcy, is so full of herself, that Alastor is on the verge of cutting her open to see how true that turn of phrase really is.

His telephone rings and he almost thanks god for the distraction. “If this isn’t an emergency, I’ll buy you a cake-”

“Valentino is here!” Nifty whisper yells into the phone.

“Shit. I’m on my way.” He hangs up and opens a portal, leaving Marcy in the recording booth alone. She’ll figure it out.

He opens a portal into the lobby, where Valentino has his hand around Angel’s throat, holding him off of the ground. Everyone has gathered in, but Charlie is the only one trying to do anything about their intruder, “you can’t just come in here-”

But, her words are drowned out, when Valentino’s voice booms through the room, “I can’t what, Angel? You think your little princess can save you?” There’s some gurgling from Angel and Valentino laughs. “Why don’t you come in and see, then?” He lowers Angel to the ground, low enough that he’ll have to drag him out and turns, stopping when he sees Alastor. “You-”

“Own Angel Dust, now,” he says, pulling the contract out of his pocket. Valentino throws Angel behind himself. He lands hard and Charlie runs over to check on him. “That’s mine,” Alastor says, dangerously.

“Alastor,” Valentino simpers, “what do you want with him, anyway, he’s just a whore.” He steps up too close, “it’s not like you,” here he looks very pointedly down, “could make any use of him.”

He sends his shadow to transport Angel to his room. Charlie gets swept up, too, but she doesn’t seem to mind, too much. “Angel is quite the actor, and have you heard that boy sing? Lordy, lordy. Voice of an angel.”

Valentino pulls himself up to full height, a few inches taller than Alastor, his collar and antennae puffing up. One on one, he’s not sure if he could win this fight. Valentino’s bound to cheat, not that he wouldn’t, but it’s still bad form.

He doesn’t break eye contact, when he says, “if you’d like to contest the current status of Angel Dust’s contract, I’m sure the King would be glad to hear your petition. How is your Father, Charlie? Do you think he’d be up for company?” Charlie isn’t even in the room anymore, but he’s hoping that Valentino doesn’t notice.

With a flick of his wrist, Valentino’s cane flies into his hand. He adjusts his coat, squaring his shoulders, “This isn’t over. Tell that whore I’m not done with him.” And Valentino stomps out.

“What did you do?” Vaggie asks him before taking the stairs two at a time.

He follows her up at a more leisurely pace and he can hear Angel panicking before he’s all the way up. He follows the yelling, sobbing, the single crash and Charlie’s muffled pleading to please not go downstairs, just let Alastor handle it, please Angel.

He uses his microphone to knock on the open door and three sets of eyes turn to him at once. “Valentino is gone. I don’t think he’ll approach your Father about getting this sorted,” he tells Charlie. “But, you,” he turns to Angel, “should stay in for a bit.”

Angel collapses onto his bed, wrapping two sets of arms around himself then pulling his knees up to hold them, too. He opens the door a bit wider and makes pointed eye contact with Charlie.

She shakes her head the way his Mother used to, whenever he would get into a fight, and pulls Vaggie out of the room. “We’re going to talk about this,” she tells him as they pass. He acknowledges that with a nod and closes the door behind them.

He stands there for a few minutes, studying Angel’s room and waiting for him to calm down enough to speak. His room is very pink. He’d noticed that Angel wears a lot of pink, but everything he owns, even the pig, is almost entirely pink. If he looks at any one thing too long, it all starts to blur together.

“Why did you do it, really? Why did you save me?” he croaks.

He flinches, when Alastor takes a step toward him, but relaxes quickly. “I didn’t save you,” he says. He cups Angel’s chin, guiding his head up to face Alastor directly. “You belong to me just as much as you belonged to him. I gave up a very powerful secret to get that contract. Don’t let that be in vain” Angel’s eyes fill with tears and Alastor lets him go. “I think a bath would do you a world of good,” he says cheerfully, making his way to the door.

“Yes, Al.”

He freezes with his hand on the knob. Now’s as good a time as any, he supposes. He turns back to Angel, who’s eyes have gone wide and who’s lip has started to quiver. He’s expecting to be struck. His upper arms pulled up near his chin so he can block any incoming blows. “My name is Alastor,” he tells him.

“Ss- yes. S-sorry. I’m sorry. Alastor.” His voice sounds like broken glass and it makes Alastor’s skin itch.

“Nifty has been meaning to speak with you. You should find her, when you finish your bath.” He waits for Angel to nod, then leaves, closing the door behind himself. He needs to go scratch an itch.


End file.
